


Zydrate Comes In A Little Glass Vial

by Not_You



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008), Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Blow Jobs, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not Happy, POV Alternating, Recreational Drug Use, Scars, gay sex between a mostly straight sleazeball and a bisexual narcissist, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3262919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long-neglected prompt on the Watchmen kinkmeme which was first phrased thusly: </p><p>Adrian only loves one hobo, and it ain't Rorschach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zydrate Comes In A Little Glass Vial

There aren't many men on GraveRobber's route. He prowls the city with his little black case of little glass vials, from door to door and house to house, doling out hits of the glow. There's a whole sub-market for good old Z; whores, trophy wives, actresses. The Veidt corporation has phased the stuff out, but the new drugs just don't have the kick of the old one. Entrepreneurs like GraveRobber have stepped in to supply the demand, and if one of the hungry is Adrian Veidt himself, GraveRobber can live with that lucrative paradox.

More than anything, Adrian's addiction to Zydrate embarrasses him. Nobly acquired, it still makes him the slave of a cheap, dirty substance. A nasty little stopgap whipped up in the first desperate days of the epidemic, it has all the elegance of huffing ether. Like it or not, he needs it, though. It's bad today, his whole body knotting up and aching, and he can't help the way he quivers as GraveRobber steps in.

It really is hard to believe that Adrian's face is all natural, but it is. A little pale, but it doesn't begin to show how bad he's jonesing. That perfect mouth quirks up in a little smile.

"Good afternoon."

"And you." He lounges in the visitor's chair, slotting a vial into the gun. Adrian only twitches a little, and he has to admire that. "How much were we thinking of today?" Adrian really can afford his habit, but has an austerity rare in addicts that makes him get by on as little as possible. Today, though. Today there's something in those gorgeous (natural) blue eyes that makes him think that maybe austerity is more than Adrian can manage.

He closes his eyes because he can't look at another human being and say this, even if it is only GraveRobber. "As much as it takes." He stands on trembly legs, and leads the way back to his bedroom, locking door after door behind them, shutting out the world. He can feel GraveRobber behind him, prowling like a cat on noiseless feet, but he doesn't look around, sliding out of his jacket and folding it neatly.

GraveRobber doesn't generally think of himself as a queer, but he does like watching Adrian undress, trained muscles shifting under tailored fabric. For all his troubles, he still has a beautiful body. He strips to his alabaster skin and leaves his clothes on a chair, turning. Really, the scars don't detract from the beautiful skin. They punctuate it, frame it, all those shades of red-pink, from livid newness to nearly white. GraveRobber doubts Adrian is striving for a sexier x-ray, but every major organ has been replaced more than once.

Adrian stretches out on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and tries not to sigh as GraveRobber ranges over him, gun in hand. He watches the tip of the gun, and remembers the first dose. And the second and the third and the fourth, to deal with all the endless cutting in those nightmare days. The secret in his scars is that Adrian Veidt sacrificed a lot more than time and money to save the world. He's a patchwork now, replacing cut-rate organs as they wear out, the waiting list for the premium ones cloned from his own still miles long.

Adrian moans as the gun sparks against his shoulder, half hard already. GraveRobber chuckles, trailing the tip from scar to scar and watching Adrian buck with each spark, twisting helplessly beneath him, groaning softly with the relief of feeling nothing at all. He can't help but test that, wrapping one hand around Adrian's straining cock. Blue eyes open, almost swallowed by black, and perfect lips part. GraveRobber kisses him, and Adrian moans into his mouth, writhing a little against the sheet.

"I have had absolutely no work on my face." His own voice is distant, echoing in his ears, and somehow the echo is the same as GraveRobber's hand on him, and there's no border between his skin and the sheet anymore. Coming on Z is the meeting of feeling and nonfeeling like matter and antimatter. Just as explosive and devastating. His mind is blown like an egg, and he only comes back to himself as GraveRobber's cock is fucking along his tongue. He drools around it and sucks, still just part of the landscape, his body full of that languorous chill. The only sound is harsh breathing and then tense silence that's almost a sound of its own as Adrian swallows and swallows. He knows he'll feel like a whore later, but for now he can just float.

GraveRobber's payment is on the dresser, and he scoops it up, stuffing it into his ratty coat, then pulling a blanket over Adrian with something that's almost tenderness. He strokes that impossible (natural) hair, kisses Adrian's forehead, and slinks out. There's all the rest of his route to walk, with his little black case full of little glass vials.


End file.
